Sherlock Gets Drunk- For Science, John!
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sherlock gets drunk in order to solve a case and John must take notes for him. Odd Sherlock drunkenness ensues. Rated M for alcohol and slash. Now with added Drunk!John
1. Chapter 1

**Hello and thanks for reading my newest fic! This was an idea I had after too much tumblr- and one of Sherlock's drunk antics was lifted from a tumblr Text From Baker Street meme. I have to give props accordingly. I realize many of these drunk Sherlock fics have been written- but I think it's just so much fun to make him drunk. Forgive me.  
**

**I pretty much just wanted to get Sherlock drunk in this fic and have a little fun with that. If you like this, please review as I am trying to decide if I should make this a multi-chapter fic or not:) Enjoy!**

* * *

Snow fell outside the windows of 221B Baker Street and inside it was snug and warm. John sat in his favorite chair, drinking a relaxing cup of tea and scrolling through the comments on his blog, smiling and laughing occasionally, coming down from a long day at the surgery. He knew his idea of a quiet evening in was shattered when he heard the front door slam open and Sherlock's bounding footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock burst into the flat carrying two large brown bags and proceeded to ignore John as he unpacked these at the kitchen table. The prolonged sounds of bangs and the clink of glass finally piqued John's interest enough that he placed his laptop to the side and went to investigate.

Sherlock was busy taking bottle after bottle out of the brown bags- vodka, gin, rum, whiskey, tequila, wine, triple sec, different liqueurs, and various mixers. John's eyes grew wide as he took in the vast array.

The table in 221B looked like a bar.

"Planning on having a good night, then?" John asked, still studying the different bottles on the table.

"Experiment, John. I plan to get drunk tonight. A woman's alibi concerning a case depends upon it."

"Right." John blinked. "I'll just…clear out of your way then-"

"No, John, I will need your help with this. I have never been drunk before and I may not be in any condition to take notes on how I react to the alcohol. I will therefore need you to take detailed notes on my behavior."

"You've never been drunk before?" John found it hard to believe that Sherlock had never once been curious enough to get drunk, even if it had been an experiment.

"I am remedying that now, John." Came the impatient reply. John rolled his eyes.

"The credibility of a witness depends on this, John. I need to get drunk in order to ascertain exactly how lowered my inhibitions become when under the influence of alcohol. I need you to keep notes so I can read them in the morning. _Very detailed notes_, John! This is very important. It is possible the whole case rests on this one witness who was so drunk she could not remember her own name. Apparently it was very out of character for her to do the things she did, ergo the alcohol test. I need to determine if someone who has iron control over themselves, such as myself, could be induced by alcohol into behaving so erratically and out of character."

"Right." John strode into the living room and grabbed up a notepad and pen, then went back to the kitchen where Sherlock was already mixing his first drink. He was beginning to think that this may be much more interesting than a quiet night in.

"I'm surprised you know how to do that."

"You would be surprised how often knowledge of such things comes up in cases, John. Especially among the young, thrill-seeking set who frequent bars and clubs until the wee hours of the morning when they allow themselves to get murdered. Drinks can also easily be poisoned or drugged. Yes, it does come up a good deal, which is why I have an extensive knowledge."

John wildly thought he was grateful there were no body shots to do and began giggling. Sherlock shot him an annoyed stare as if he could deduce his thoughts.

"You may begin taking notes after I have consumed my fifth drink. If the notes the woman gave me, and the bartender can be believed, she drank a total of five mixed drinks and then began shots."

John watched as Sherlock chugged the first drink. Sherlock pulled a face as he put down the glass and shuddered.

"Sherlock, have you eaten anything today? That could affect the outcome."

Sherlock gave John his 'I'm-not-an-idiot' look and John rolled his eyes, propping his head on his hand in order to watch Sherlock chug his second drink.

* * *

_9:35-9:50 pm_- Sherlock spent 15 minutes giggling uncontrollably while reading through my blog. I had not realized it was so funny. I had also not realized that Sherlock was capable of giggling. Like a schoolgirl, Sherlock, like a schoolgirl.

_9:50-10:50 pm_- Sherlock has spent the last hour telling me about bees. He seems to know a great deal, however I am not sure everything he told me is completely factual, such as the fact that bees wear scarves just like he does, which is why he wears his scarf- "of course, John!" Sherlock also informed me that each colony of bees had their own John Watson, as he was the most important person in the hive Sherlock I think you were calling me a queen- if this was the case I require an apology this morning.

It was amusing to watch him attempt to demonstrate the dance bees do in order to inform the other bees of where sources of pollen are. Sherlock seemed very upset when I laughed at his dancing so I told him he was a wonderful dancer. This obviously pleased him. I also told him that I thought he and bees had a lot in common, such as their stings. The bees may sting someone and cause them great pain, the person may even wish for death. Sherlock verbally stings people and the results are the same, except he does not die. Sherlock collapsed into giggles again. Very schoolgirl-ish.

_11:45 pm_- Police have just left. Sherlock "fetch me my revolver" Holmes is the bloody cause of this. I was not about to take Sherlock with me to the loo- my friendship extends only so far, Sherlock. When I returned from the loo, Sherlock had found my gun and was shooting holes in the wall with it. It was only a matter of time, as I have TOLD YOU Sherlock, before someone heard and called the police- and this time they did. It was only thanks to a quick call to Lestrade that we managed not to be arrested and as it was, my gun was confiscated. Lestrade somehow managed it so no charges were pressed. I hate you so much right now, Sherlock.

_11:50 pm_- Sherlock is now singing his apology. I require a real one in the morning, Sherlock. You may sing it if you want.

_11:50-12:30 am_- Prevented MENTAL flat-mate from experimenting with the head in the microwave. If you attempt this experiment sober, I will not clean it up, Sherlock. I won't. I will fucking move out if you even attempt this. I am assuming the only reason you attempted it was because you were drunk. It better fucking be.

_12:30-12:40 am_- Sherlock has spent the last 10 minutes attempting to highlight my face. He kept slurring: "Because you're important, John. You're _important_! Remind me in morning." I will verbally remind you, Sherlock, because I do not relish the idea of walking round with a yellow face for the next week.

_12:40-1:00 am_- Listen, Sherlock. Some things, I cannot write. You told me about your sexual history. You know the story, now I know the story- it does not need to be repeated here.

_1:00-1:30 am_- Christ. Sherlock, I do not know how you reach this age while still being a virgin. Just fucking drop it. Please.

_1:30-1:35 am_- The reason your arse is hurting is because I threw you on it when you kept pressing me for _my_ sexual history. What is private is private. I am not drunk enough to divulge that information.

_1:35-3:05 am_- Sherlock laid on the couch and laughed into the air. I assume he is in his Mind Palace and has found something highly amusing. I hope it does not involve dead bodies. Or me.

* * *

"Come on, Sherlock, let's get you to bed."

John was tired, irritated, beyond annoyed, and ready to get rid of Sherlock and go to his own bed. He scrubbed at his face and stared down at Sherlock who was still sprawled on the couch, smiling like an idiot and staring dreamily up at John. He sighed and pulled on Sherlock's arms and helped the taller man stagger to his feet. Sherlock leaned heavily on him and burrowed his face into John's neck, inhaling deeply. John felt Sherlock's lips on his neck a second before Sherlock's tongue darted out and licked a path up John's neck to his ear.

John gasped and jerked away to stare at Sherlock in disbelief. Sherlock giggled at him.

"You taste delicious. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"Sherlock, stop it. I'm getting you in bed. I have _had it_ with you tonight."

Sherlock leaned forward. "But you haven't _had_ me tonight, John. Do you want to?"

John stared at him, frozen and blinking up at the drunk man. He knew Sherlock was drunk and he would obviously not take advantage of that but…the fact that Sherlock had offered was still unnerving and…hot.

John decided to ignore him and, clearing his throat, began half-dragging Sherlock towards his bedroom. The consulting detective managed to keep up, laughing as his feet got tangled and he grabbed onto John. The movement sent them staggering into the wall, Sherlock pressed against John and John raised his eyes to the heavens, sure the night could not get any more exasperating.

Sherlock began kissing his neck, wet open-mouthed kisses, using his tongue generously and, as John struggled to move him, he latched onto John's neck and sucked. John's hand fisted in Sherlock's shirt, frozen in the act of pushing him away, and grasped the man to him, moaning in surprise. The moan, however, made John aware of what was happening and he pushed Sherlock- hard. The man tripped backwards and landed on his arse for the second time that night, staring up at John in surprise.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to control his arousal and irritation. It was surely a record of some sort to be feeling so much of each at the same moment. He seriously thought about leaving Sherlock on the floor in the hallway and going up to bed but his conscious pricked. Sighing, John offered Sherlock his hand and hauled the man to his feet again.

This time John allowed no nonsense and he steered Sherlock into the bedroom from behind, rebuffing Sherlock's repeated attempts to grab him. He pushed Sherlock onto the bed and watched as he giggled and bounced, his limbs flying. Shaking his head, relieved the night was over, John was turning away to leave when Sherlock's hand shot out and he grabbed John's arm and yanked. John lost his footing and sprawled on top of Sherlock.

"John. John, John, John, John, Joooooohn." Sherlock slurred, his voice muffled by John's chest and John struggled to maneuver himself up and away from the mental, drunk, consulting detective. Sherlock pulled him back down and rolled with John clasped in his arms, ending on top of John, his curly head resting on John's shoulder.

John swore.

"Sherlock, get the fuck off me and let me go to bed. I have had enough of your drunk shenanigans. Get. The. Fuck. Off. Me."

Sherlock raised his head and stared down at John, his eyes sad. A tiny frown formed. "John. John doeshn't like me. Why- why John doeshn't you like me?"

"You'll read it in the notes in the morning, Sherlock, trust me." John wedged his hands between their chests and began leveraging Sherlock up.

Sherlock shook his head frantically, leaning more heavily on John. John's breath went out in a whoosh as Sherlock's entire body collapsed on top of him. He sighed angrily, clenching his jaw. It seemed that a drunken Sherlock could be surprisingly strong.

"Sherlock."

"John….John…love me." Sherlock let his head fall forward and crashed his lips onto John's. John tasted blood as Sherlock's teeth connected with his bottom lip and he winced and struggled ineffectually underneath his oblivious flat-mate. Sherlock refused to move, continuing on with the kiss, and John debated his options. He really did not want to hurt Sherlock but he really wanted out of this situation. It was bizarre and just wrong on so many levels- the first of which was that Sherlock was drunk and had obviously trusted John not to let anything like this happen.

"John, John, John. M'blogger, m'friend- love me." Sherlock slurred against John's lips. "Do you know how much I love you? _So much_, John. So much. I've never loved anyone like you." Sherlock brought his lips back to John's, this time gently, and, despite every nerve in his body telling him not to, John kissed him back, sighing and closing his eyes, moving his lips over Sherlock's. Sherlock made an appreciative noise in his chest and John stroked his hands down Sherlock's back. Sherlock arched into him, rubbing himself like a cat against John.

John fisted his hands in Sherlock's shirt and rolled with him, bringing Sherlock onto his back and breaking the kiss. He looked down at Sherlock from this vantage point, memorizing the way his eyes looked, heavy lidded and glazed, then pulled himself away, knowing it was the right thing to do. Sherlock, now pliant and happy, allowed John to leave the bed and flipped onto his side with every intention of sleeping.

"Night, Sherlock."

* * *

3:30 am- Subject was put to bed.

John reviewed his last note and decided not to tell Sherlock he had kissed him. Let his flat mate deduce that one in the morning, if he could. Hopefully, he would not.


	2. Chapter 2

**I always meant to come back and write more for this story but I never got the chance. My other fic is not behaving in the way it should, so I wrote this! I hope everyone enjoys it and I promise to write another chapter for it. I do not think it will be as long as my other fics, another chapter or two will wrap it up nicely- and there may possibly be smut. You have been warned.**

* * *

Sherlock woke up with the worst taste in his mouth, his head felt as if it were about to split in two, and nausea was a vile acidic presence at the back of his throat. He groaned and burrowed into his pillow, pulling the sheet around him and curling into the fetal position.

He heard his bedroom door open and John's footsteps coming closer to the bed. It sounded like he was a giant, the footfalls were so loud, but Sherlock felt much too sick to tell him to be quieter.

"Here, Sherlock, take these." John spoke in a soothing, low voice for which Sherlock was grateful. He threw out a hand, without opening his eyes, to take the pills and glass of water. His stomach rebelled while his brain seemed to rejoice in the clear, cold water. It was agony. He groaned and promised himself to never drink again- unless it was necessary for a case and there were no other way. He would exhaust every other option, though, before he did this again.

He heard John chuckle pityingly.

"You'll feel better in a few hours. Just get some rest. I'll be at the surgery if you need me. I'm leaving more pills and a glass of water on your table. Take them in _4 hours_, Sherlock. _Four hours_. Not as soon as I leave. You'll only make yourself sicker."

Sherlock moaned his thanks, pulling the sheet over his head and wishing for death. He would never understand why people got drunk on a regular basis if this was how they felt the next morning. At the moment, he did not even care about the results of the previous night, though he was sure John had dutifully recorded them. Life was meaningless when his head pounded, pounded, pounded and he was making a valiant effort not to be sick.

He carefully stripped himself of his clothing from the night before. Doing this while keeping his head stationary on the pillow and keeping his body totally prone took effort but he finally managed it without vomiting, which was what his body truly wanted at the moment.

Sherlock rolled himself in his sheet, making himself into a burrito of misery, took his doctor's advice, and slept.

* * *

When Sherlock woke again it was past midday and he was feeling better. His stomach only rolled once when he drug himself out of bed, still wrapped in his sheet. He padded on bare feet into the main room, thankful it was a dark and rainy day, and snatched up the notebook where John had kept his notes. A case _did_ hinge on the woman's story and Sherlock was determined to solve the case before the day was out.

He thought about texting John and telling him to come back and take care of him since he was still feeling a bit pathetic, but dismissed this to be used later. John could be guilt-tripped into cooking something delicious for him when he returned from the surgery. Sherlock sprawled on the sofa to read, pulling the sheet tightly around him, and began reading over John's notes.

Sherlock had only been reading for 5 minutes before he bolted from the sofa and raced to the bathroom, turning on the light and studying his face. There, at the corner of his lip, was a smear of blood. It was very faint but it was there. He blinked, his mind furnishing an image of himself pressing against John on his bed and John rolling their bodies so he was on top of Sherlock, their bodies pressed from chest to feet. His mind went unhelpfully blank after this, as did John's notes.

Sherlock's spine straightened and he felt a thrill of genuine horror. _What_ had happened last night? He glanced down his body as if expecting to find visible evidence. There were no bruises, no fluid remains to indicate he and John had completed a sexual act. There was merely that smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock's tongue snaked and he licked the blood from his lips, rolling his tongue in his mouth questioningly. It was obviously John's as there were no marks on Sherlock's body or lips that would have bled.

He dropped his sheet completely and visually inspected his entire body. There were two bruises on his buttocks but the shape of both were indistinct and indicted a fall- two falls- and not…not being gripped by hands. One fall was documented by John in his notes. The other fall was not.

Sherlock wandered out of the bathroom and began inspecting the rest of the flat. At the end of an hour, Sherlock was very angry and had given Mrs. Hudson an inadvertent eyeful of his naked body. Her screams had been like knives in his ears and she had made him promise to never stroll about the flat naked again. It was unlikely Sherlock would, he thought savagely, if she screamed like a banshee each time he did.

The entire flat has been maddeningly unhelpful for his deductive capabilities. There were no signs of what had taken place once John's notes went unhelpfully blank. Something, however, had occurred and Sherlock was determined to discover it.

He stretched himself out on the sofa to await John's return.

* * *

John walked up the stairs to the flat, his feet dragging from a long day at the surgery and after staying up so late last night with a drunken Sherlock. He groaned imagining how Sherlock would act tonight after his hangover this morning. Hellish, petulant, like a child. John felt tired even thinking about it.

Sure enough, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, dressed in his pajamas and robe, but his eyes were alert as he watched John hang up his coat.

"John, what happened last night?"

John jumped at the sudden question and a sensory image of Sherlock crushing his lips to John's flashed before his eyes. John tried not to look guilty and moved nonchalantly towards the kitchen.

"It's all there, Sherlock, in the notes. What do you want for dinner?" John tried to keep his voice even but the memory of Sherlock drunkenly slurring that John had not "had" him yet kept repeating on a loop in his brain.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John was definitely avoiding his gaze, his posture indicating he was uncomfortable. Something had occurred last night that John did not wish to discuss and Sherlock was very much aware of it. His eyes fell to John's lips and he noticed the bottom lip was slightly swollen and sported a small cut.

"Mm…yes, very interesting reading, your notes." Sherlock said, coldly, getting up from the sofa and stepping on the coffee table to walk towards the kitchen.

"I can't help it if you act completely out of character when you're drunk, Sherlock. That was the theory you were testing anyway, so it seems to have worked out."

John began pulling food from the fridge, inspecting it closely for mold and other…unsavory ingredients, before deciding they were edible and placing the containers on the table. Sherlock watched this, noticing John's flushing cheeks and steady hands. He was still avoiding Sherlock's gaze, highly suspicious.

Sherlock's eyes flicked down the rest of John's body, and then concentrated on the jumper John wore. He blinked.

"You never wear turtlenecks." He had not even been aware that John _owned_ a turtleneck.

"Right. I'm going to have a shower before I start dinner." John said, glancing quickly at Sherlock who was still staring at him, deducing. John gave him a small smile and stepped around him to enter the hallway.

"John."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, John turned around and watched as Sherlock approached,

He backed John up against the wall and looked deeply into his eyes as if trying to lift the answers directly from John's brain. John stared back…but then blinked and looked away. He stayed perfectly still as Sherlock pulled the fabric away from his neck and revealed the distinct bruise. Red, obviously made from a bite. A memory flashed through Sherlock's head- pressing against John, John struggling beneath him- latching onto John's neck and biting, sucking- John pulling him closer, groaning in surprise and arousal.

That was all it took for Sherlock to bend down and capture John's lips with his. The doctor attempted to twist away, but Sherlock was ahead of him, grabbing John's hands and pressing them to either side of his head. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and felt his knees shaking. _Fuck_. Who knew he had always wanted Sherlock to be just a bit aggressive when it came to this? Who had known he had even wanted this?

Sherlock's kisses grew more intense, tipping John's head back in order to accommodate them. His teeth nipped at John's lips, eliciting a mixed groan of pleasure and pain as his teeth nibbled on the swollen lip, and his tongue swept into his mouth, tangling with John's in a deliciously sensual dance. John moaned and tried to move his hands, wanting to run them over Sherlock's body, pull him closer. Sherlock's grip tightened on them and he pulled away, his breathing labored.

"You weren't going to tell me what happened last night." Sherlock said, his voice incredibly deep and John shivered, feebly attempting to extract his hands.

"You were drunk."

Sherlock slammed John's hands against the door with some force, enforcing the feeling that John was trapped. John moaned in delight. "You. Weren't. Going. To. Tell. Me."

John's pupils were blown wide. He licked his lips, his eyes falling to gaze at Sherlock's lips. "No. No, I wasn't going to."

Sherlock's face suddenly blanked and he released John, stepping away, and turning to go to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, leaving a very confused and aroused John behind.

* * *

**Comments are delicious! Leave them! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh, dear, I've written smut. Hope everyone enjoys and if this is not your cup of tea, I would strongly advise you to stroll along to another fic. I usually do a fade to black but..*shrugs* I don't know what happened with this one. **

* * *

John stood in the hallway, panting and aroused, feeling like an idiot for all of 30 seconds before he turned and walked to Sherlock's bedroom door, pounding on the wood.

"Sherlock!" he tried the knob, unsurprised to find it locked. "Sherlock, we need to talk about this."

There was no reply and John sighed, frustrated, and rested his head against the smooth wood of the door.

"Fuck. Sherlock…I'm sorry. Ok? I wasn't going to tell you because…because you were drunk and not acting like yourself and…and I didn't want you to, you know, be embarrassed-"

"Perhaps you were the one embarrassed by what occurred, John." The remark was cold and cutting, designed to hurt and John closed his eyes tightly.

"No." he said softly, his voice husky. "No, I wasn't embarrassed. Stunned, yeah, but…not embarrassed."

There was more silence from behind the door and John pulled away, staring hard at it as if he could possibly see through it and view the too-tall toddler who was currently throwing a diva fit.

"Stop acting like you're two, Sherlock, and come out and talk to me like we're adults."

Silence.

John frowned, started to walk away, then turned around again, determined to have this out now. There was no way he was going to lose his friendship with Sherlock over this…_whatever_ this was.

"I'll break this door down in ten seconds if you don't open it, Sherlock." John didn't shout, didn't yell his threat, he merely crossed his arms and calmly told Sherlock what would happen if he continued to pout in his room.

"You wouldn't dare."

John took that statement to mean Sherlock would not be opening the door, and thought about dispensing with the 10 seconds and start breaking it down. But he was sporting and began the countdown.

"10…9…8…7…6…5…4…..3….2….Sherlock, this is your last warning- open this-"

There was frantic movement from inside the room and Sherlock jerked the door open. His eyes were narrowed in anger but John refused to back down. Sherlock had acted out when he was drunk, now he would face the consequences- whatever those would be.

"I assumed that the events of last night would have been unpleasant to you and you would not wish for them to be repeated." Sherlock said frostily. "I should apologize for forcing myself on you minutes ago. I can see that was a disgusting mistake."

"What, you only want me when you're drunk?" John fired back, hurt and angry.

He realized he had gone too far when Sherlock's eyes narrowed even more and he began slowly stalking towards John. John swallowed nervously and began backing away.

"I "wanted you" as you phrase it, when I was drunk last night. I _wanted you_ after you shot the cabbie that first night and saved my life. I _want you_ each time I look over and see you pecking away on that ridiculous blog. I _wanted you_ the night I was afraid after seeing the hound. I have _wanted you…_ _hundreds_ of time throughout our friendship and never _once_ have you given any indication that you reciprocated those feelings."

John realized that Sherlock had backed him against the wall for the second time that night when his back hit the wall with jarring force. John discovered that he did not mind the feeling at all. He watched as Sherlock drew closer, mesmerized by his words.

"What, John, was I to then think when I throw myself at you while drunk and you try and pretend as if nothing happened the next morning? When you _admit_ that you would not have told me? You would have continued on with our friendship exactly the way it was, dating women, pretending we had never…never been close." Sherlock smirked coldly at John and he felt his heart beat painfully. "My reaction was perfectly _just_, I believe."

Sherlock glanced down John's body once, a cursory look, and John wondered what he saw. When Sherlock's eyes collided with his own again, they were dark, the pupils dilated and John knew, _knew_, that Sherlock's pulse would have quickened as well.

John leapt forward and pulled Sherlock down, kissing him a bit sloppily but a quick movement and their lips were perfectly aligned. John gripped Sherlock's hair harshly and angled his head to deepen the kiss, pushing his tongue past Sherlock's lips. Sherlock moaned, returning the kiss briefly, before shoving at John and John let him go, frowning and still angry.

"I just wanted to do that when you were not drunk or trying to extract information from me." He glared at Sherlock. They stared at each other, each angry and breathing hard.

"Oh, and just for the record, what I just said meant that I _wanted_ to kiss you. Idiot." John said, his voice low, and Sherlock's eyes widened.

John took a savage pleasure that he had surprised the genius consulting detective for all of two seconds before Sherlock had pinned him to the wall again, his hands to either side of his head- again- and was kissing him with a fervor that bordered on the desperate.

John responded immediately, trying and failing to free his hands, so he arched against Sherlock, savoring the feeling of Sherlock pressing back against him. John hooked his leg around Sherlock's calf and pulled him closer, falling back against the wall completely, Sherlock's body flush against his own.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, pulling back to stare at John in surprise. His eyes zipped around John's face, deducing at lightning face speed and John let him, pulling in great gasps of air.

"You want me." Sherlock's voice was low, completely surprised and John smiled up at him.

"Shh…do you hear that?" John asked in a hushed tone.

Sherlock was immediately tense, his eyes flicking around the flat.

"It's the sound of my heterosexuality dying."

John had never seen Sherlock look more stunned. He never got the chance to laugh, though, as Sherlock grabbed him and began pulling John towards his bedroom.

* * *

"Wait, wait!" John gasped, arching beneath Sherlock as his cool, slim fingers found their way beneath his jumper. Sherlock did not pause for a second but continued to pull his jumper further up and finally over his head, capturing John's lips and throwing the garment far away. He ran his hands down John's chest, rubbing at his nipples until John squirmed on the bed. Sherlock then swooped down to capture his lips in a searing kiss, biting his lip as he pulled away and began kissing his way down John's neck.

"What..are we… doing?" John asked between breathless moans.

Sherlock pulled away and looked down at John with an amused frown. "Surely even you can deduce what we are about to do, John."

John made a helpless, aroused little noise beneath him and watched as Sherlock's eyes dilated even more. John sprang into action, fumbling with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, hindered a bit by Sherlock who had latched his mouth to John's neck and was sucking savagely- causing John to lose his train of thought- until there was another mark to match the one he had given him the night before.

John grabbed Sherlock's hair- really it was most convenient and Sherlock seemed to love it being pulled if the noises he made were any indication- and tugged his head up to bring their lips together. Sherlock rubbed himself against John like a large cat and John, tentatively at first until he was certain Sherlock enjoyed it, raked his fingernails down his back.

After a few- enjoyable- minutes of snogging, John realized that Sherlock was making no further moves, either to remove clothing or kiss or touch him anywhere. He pulled back a bit, concerned.

"Wh-what's wrong?" he asked, panting, staring up at Sherlock.

Sherlock actually flushed and dropped his eyes, biting his lip a bit. John rose up and sucked the bitten lip into his mouth, eliciting a shudder from the half-naked consulting detective laid out atop him. He could feel Sherlock's erection against his hip and thrust up a bit. Sherlock tentatively ground his erection against him, but then stopped, his body growing rigid against John.

"What is it?"

Sherlock sighed. "I've never done this before, John."

"I know. You told me. It's _fine_ Sherlock. Don't worry- you… don't have to do anything you don't want to do-"

"I want to do this….just not…not what you're wanting."

"What do you think I want us to do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes sailed away from his awkwardly. "Intercourse, I assume." The blush at his cheeks turned a shade darker and John had to remember how to breathe when he thought of having intercourse with Sherlock. _Holy fuck_.

"We don't have to do that." John said, smiling reassuringly and rubbing Sherlock's back in what he hoped was a soothing manner and not lecherous. "I'm not lying, the thought had uh, entered my head, but we can do anything you want. Anything you're comfortable with." John was sure that Sherlock could whisper naughty things in his ear and he would come in his pants. It was _all fine_ with him.

Sherlock stared hard at John, deducing the truth, but John refused to look away. He meant it.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and his entire body relaxed atop John's. He lazily began to kiss John again and John, after giving Sherlock a few more minutes to relax, carefully shifted Sherlock to the side, rolling himself atop him, taking his weight on his elbows and knees.

"What do you want, love?" he murmured against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock shook his head and blushed again. John pulled away, locking his elbows.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No!" Sherlock protested, wrapping his arms around John and pulling him back down. "I just…" he cleared his throat and John reveled in seeing a speechless and seemingly shy Sherlock. "Don't make me say it." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes in defeat.

John's began trying to think of what Sherlock wanted. No intercourse- ok, he could deal with that. A blow-job? A hand job? Would that be too much? As per the information Sherlock had revealed last night, he was a virgin- a virgin in every sense of the word. He had been explicit with that information. John shook his head remembering.

"I…Sherlock…you'll have to tell me…" John didn't want to do anything wrong and scare Sherlock or turn him off.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, blushing harder than ever, and bit his lip. John realized that a shy Sherlock was the hottest sight in the world.

"Why don't I tell you what I _want_ to do to you?" John suggested, licking the shell of Sherlock's ear and hearing his breath stutter out. Sherlock nodded, his hair brushing against John's head and he smirked.

"I want to take the rest of your clothes off and suck you. Can I do that?"

Sherlock was perfectly still and silent beneath him. John began to worry he had said something wrong when Sherlock whispered.

"Yes."

John locked his elbows again to look at Sherlock, try his hand at deduction, but Sherlock just looked aroused and expectant. He smiled and moved backward, trailing his hand down Sherlock's chest.

"John, I've never done this before." Sherlock whispered, grabbing John's hand, halting its southward descent.

John kissed him, long and hard. "Neither have I, love." He turned his attention to unfastening Sherlock's trousers and Sherlock let him, letting his head fall back with a groan. He lifted his hips and felt his pants and trousers part company with his body, leaving him very, very exposed and very naked.

He shivered in anticipation as he felt John's hands begin lightly traveling up his legs, leaving goose bumps in their wake. By the time John's hands had reached the bends of Sherlock's legs, Sherlock was thrusting his hips up, desperate for John to touch him there. He heard John chuckle and felt his cheeks burn.

"_John_!" he reprimanded, embarrassed and suddenly wanting to call the whole thing off. He tried to sit up, but John was there, leaning over him and pushing him back, soothing him with kisses, trying to hide his smile.

Sherlock huffed, settling, as John ran his hands down his naked sides, kneading the skin at his hips, a coiling heat building low in his stomach. John smiled against his lips then began kissing his way down Sherlock's neck, over his collarbone, licked a line between his pectorals, swirling his tongue over each nipple before continuing down. His slid his tongue over Sherlock's belly button and licked a line from each hipbone.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried not to make any noises that would embarrass him later.

John gently ran his fingertips up the underside of Sherlock's cock and watched as it twitched and Sherlock's hips shakily thrust upwards. John leaned forward and blew teasingly on the head, smiling when Sherlock's hips thrust again, seemingly against his will. Sherlock moaned above him.

"_Please_."

John leaned forward and carefully took the length into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head as he withdrew and Sherlock gasped then moaned above him. John had never done this before but he thought of what he liked done to himself and did not find it that hard to replicate.

It did not take long for Sherlock's hips to being thrusting and John placed steadying hands on his hips to prevent his throat from being fucked raw. He listened to the moans flowing almost nonstop from Sherlock's usually intelligent mouth and felt himself growing harder and harder. John clumsily thrust a hand down his own bottoms and began to move his hand over his length, closing his eyes at the sensations.

"S-stop, John!" Sherlock bucked again and clumsily tugged John's hand out of his pants. "I'll do..._oh fuck_, _don't stop that_- that."

John hummed in agreement and Sherlock cried out, thrusting.

"J-John, I'm close! I'm _close_!" Sherlock tugged weakly at John's hair but John remained where he was.

He raked his nails down the inside of Sherlock's thigh and Sherlock came with a strangled cry, his thighs shaking. John helped him ride out the waves of his orgasm then sat back on his heels and surveyed the wreck of a man before him. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his head was still thrown back, his beautiful throat exposed, panting, his chest rapidly rising and falling. John bit his lip and touched himself in light, teasing strokes, waiting for Sherlock to come back to reality.

He was rewarded for his patience when Sherlock surged upward and pulled John onto the bed, flattening him onto his back and kissing him. Sherlock ran his tongue about John's mouth, licking his palate, tasting himself and John, and growling low in his chest. It was particularly feral noise for him to make and John smiled hearing it.

Sherlock scooted backwards- John was envious that he still managed to look graceful- and quickly and skillfully pulled John's trousers and pants off. He then sat back and stared at John's cock.

"You have one too, you know." John huffed, a bit embarrassed to be under Sherlock's scrutiny.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and touched John's cock, slowly pumping his hand. He alternated with firm and light strokes, beginning to move faster, his keen eyes alternating between John's face and his cock. It was obvious that Sherlock meant to explore John's reactions at length and in depth but John knew that would not happen. He had been close to coming earlier and seeing Sherlock leaning above him, naked, after John had just given him his first blow-job…

He was already past the point of no return and he only barely managed to warn Sherlock before his hips were thrusting and he was coming onto Sherlock's hand.

* * *

"Was there really a case?" John asked hesitantly. The thought had nagged him a bit since Sherlock had told him how long he had wanted John. It _did_ seem a very Sherlock- thing to do.

Sherlock laughed against John's neck, causing him to squirm.

"Yes, there was a case. I did not stage the entire night in an elaborate plan to make you snog me-"

"Excuse me_, you_ snogged _me_, if I remember correctly." John replied a bit caustically but was soothed when Sherlock dipped his head to kiss and lick at his scar, which he seemed fascinated with for some reason.

"Perhaps next time you should be the one to get drunk." Sherlock's expression was serious as he stared down at John. "We can see which of the two of us acts-"

"You just want to take advantage of me when I'm drunk." John accused lazily, unable to inject much indignation into his voice.

Sherlock's smile was perfectly wicked. "Would I do that to you, John?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Roughly 5 months ago, I promised I'd write a sequel to the last chapter. Here it is! There will be another chapter after this one. Thanks for reading!**

**Drunk!John**

* * *

"You remember the rules, right?"

John watched nervously as Sherlock ignored him and continued mixing his first drink in the kitchen. He carefully observed as Sherlock went through the motions, making sure nothing _extra_ was slipped into the glass. John didn't put it past Sherlock to drug him, even though he had promised not to.

It was one of the rules.

Sherlock slid the glass across the table, excitement making his eyes gleam as he watched John inspect it.

"You do-"

"Remember the rules. _Yes_, John, I remember…everything…you…said." Sherlock purred, leaning forward, placing his hands on the table and enjoying the way John's pupils dilated and he swallowed nervously.

John broke eye contact and cleared his throat, reaching for the glass and downing it in one. Sherlock smiled, a closed, mysterious smile that made John very uneasy and question if he had inspected the contents of the glass adequately.

"I don't know why I agreed to this." John sighed, watching as Sherlock began mixing another brightly colored drink. "Maybe because you wouldn't leave me alone about it and pestered me to do it every ten minutes. Don't know why you're so keen on it."

"It's an _experiment_, John. It's not as if I'm getting you intoxicated in order to have my way with you."

"Yeah, only because I made that one of the rules. No drunk sex with John."

Sherlock managed to look offended and excited at the same time, even as he slid another drink across the table to his new lover. "I can have you anytime I wish when you're sober. As if I would need to stoop to taking advantage of you when you would be unable to say no."

John gave Sherlock a deeply mistrustful look then downed his drink obediently. They worked in silence for another few minutes, John drinking and Sherlock practically vibrating in excitement. As Sherlock gave him another drink, John glanced between him and the brightly colored liquid, appraisingly.

"You know, I'd get drunk faster if I just did shots."

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock sat in his armchair, his hands pressed beneath his chin, and watched John sway tipsily on the sofa.

"You do…r-realize your name's a bit ridiculous, _hmm_? _Sher_-lock Hoooolmes. Sher-_lock_ Hoooolmes."

Sherlock watched impassively as John, his eyes glassy and watery, giggled at him.

"It's…it's bloody _English_, is what it is." John declared resolutely and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Tipsy John was not very smart, nor were his observations very clever or funny, though John himself apparently found them amusing. Really, if this were a taster for what the rest of the night would bring, Sherlock was beginning to wish he hadn't gotten John drunk. It was obvious _he_ had provided John with amusing entertainment when drunk, and Sherlock had expected better from drunk John. It did not seem a fair exchange thus far. Especially considering Sherlock would not be allowed to have "his wicked way" (as John had put it) with his blogger.

John clutched the bottle of whiskey in one hand, from which he drank every few minutes. Beside him on the sofa was an empty shot glass which had been abandoned, shortly after beginning, in favor of the bottle. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and calculated how much more John would need to drink until he was completely intoxicated. John's small stature and weight offset the amount of food he had consumed for dinner, decreasing the amount of time it would take him to get truly soused.

Not much longer, Sherlock decided. Then the _real_ fun could begin.

"Well." Sherlock said, standing up and striding to the kitchen to put the liquor bottles away and prepare a quick experiment. "Do inform me when you're drunk, John. There's no need for me to waste my time in the interim."

John's only response was a high-pitched giggle and another obedient pull at the bottle.

* * *

John did not _tell_ Sherlock he was drunk so much as _scream_ it from the sitting room, causing Sherlock to jump and break the fragile pipette he had been holding. He slowly swiveled around and stood up, pinning John with his best glare.

John hiccupped happily from the sofa at him.

"Sherlock, 'lo. You tole me to tell you when I was drunk andnowIthinkI'mdrunk. Marvesslously drunk." John brandished the empty whiskey bottle before allowing it to slip from his fingers and thunk onto the carpet.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he carefully deduced his lover, reading the signs of intoxication on him like a well-known book. He had a lot of practice at it and when Sherlock was adequately satisfied John was well and truly smashed, he smiled deviously.

"Well done, John."

John giggled at the praise and slumped back against the sofa, watching as Sherlock made his way over to him, kneeling in front of him and lowering himself so his face was close to John's.

"What did I say the night I was drunk, John?" Sherlock asked seductively. John leaned forward and kissed him sloppily. He tasted strongly of whiskey, which Sherlock didn't find altogether repellant, but it seemed that John's skills at snogging took a drastic nosedive when he was drunk. Sherlock allowed the kiss to continue briefly before pulling back.

"What did I say?" Sherlock cooed, rubbing his hand at the back of John's neck and watching as John's eyes fluttered closed at the contact. He moaned, deep in his chest, and pressed himself closer to Sherlock, thrusting his hips up so his half-hard cock brushed against Sherlock's stomach.

"Mmm…Sh'lock…you're _amazing_." John sighed, keeping his eyes closed and arching into the contact Sherlock provided.

"Yes, I know, John. Now, tell me, what did I say?"

John giggled and rubbed his nose against Sherlock's in a disgustingly sentimental way. "I can't tell. You'll get mad." He singsonged. Sherlock was fascinated. He'd been unaware John would be a happy laughing drunk. If anything, in his worst calculations, Sherlock had been prepared for a sobbing wreck of a man who relived war flashbacks. A John who sang as he talked and grinned like an idiot was an unexpected and welcome outcome.

"Oh, I don't think so." Sherlock smiled winningly, amused despite himself at how John began giggling. John had never looked so carefree and relaxed as he did now and Sherlock caressed his cheek, bewitched. John sighed happily.

"I love you."

Sherlock froze, the smile slipping from his face as he stared at John.

"I can't tell you though 'cause you'll leave."

"I won't leave…" Sherlock said, confused, offended, and happy all at once. It was enough to make his head pound, all these conflicting emotions.

"No, you'll still be here but you won't…_be here_." John frowned, obviously confused at his own logic, and swayed before flopping sideways on the sofa. "You don't believe in love." He sighed, sadly, and Sherlock pulled away and watched John wriggle up the sofa as if he had lost the use of his arms and legs until he was lying on his back. John looked up at him.

"I love you." He slurred, his face dreamy. "I loved you…before I was _in love_ with you. But now I really love you. In. _In_, Sherlock."

Sherlock was unsure how to take this revelation as John began laughing in the next second and jabbering something about bees and Sherlock's dancing and how that was when he knew for sure because Sherlock was a great, big prat.

Sherlock decided he didn't like drunk John. It was rather hard to get reliable information out of him.

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock was annoyed but had yet to grow actually bored with his experiment. Drunk John was decidedly…active. He had watched John act out scenes from Hamlet with his skull (badly), giggling madly with his tongue between his teeth the entire time, giggle over the idea of calling Harry and telling her he was drunk, slurring that then she'd know what the glove was like on the other foot- and this had then led John to reveal how stupidly annoying Harry had been as a child. It was as John harped on the annoying qualities of having a sibling that he came up with the clever idea of prank calling Mycroft ("bloody annoying sod. Probably knows my dick size what with all…all his bloody cameras." "Have you displayed your penis in public often, John?" Sherlock had been surprised by the resulting answer.)

"I'm sure my brother will recognize your name and number on his mobile when you call. That would rather defeat the object of "prank" calling, wouldn't it?" Sherlock had pointed out and watched as John's face fell comically.

"You've never pranked called anyone before?" John asked in a slurred voice, looking at Sherlock who shook his head, rather intrigued with the idea despite himself.

"Course not. You'll like it. We'll do it 'nother time when Mycroft's not watching."

John launched into another monologue about how annoying umbrellas were and Sherlock, as he listened to John rattle away, was beginning to regret his decision to allow John to get drunk. It was starting to be tedious…when John suddenly moved, tripped, and insinuated himself between Sherlock's thighs, mouthing his soft cock gracelessly through his trousers.

"That's against the rules." Sherlock said, his droll voice concealing his suddenly raging arousal.

"You always break rules, Sherlock." John slurred, his eyes glazed as he looked up at Sherlock.

Oh, drunk John had a _wonderful_ point.

"Does drinking suddenly make you a slut?" Sherlock asked, running his fingers through John's hair and John closed his eyes, his mouth open and his breathing increasing.

"What if it does?" John asked in a breathy giggle. "Would I be _your_ slut, Sherlock?"

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip and debated with himself. If John found out it would definitely be a bit not good…it was one of the rules John had laid down- no sex while he was inebriated. Sherlock had been secretly offended- as if he would sexually take advantage of John when he were drunk!

John kissed him through his trousers again and Sherlock's canted his hips forward, gasping. John moaned as he licked the bulge that was rapidly forming and Sherlock rolled his head back against the chair, staring wide eyed at the ceiling, knowing what he _should_ do but desperately wanting to do the opposite. He could feel John's fingers beginning to fumble with his belt and he moaned, wanting to keep going but knowing it was wrong.

Finally, his willpower won out and he grabbed John by the elbows, hauling him up to sit on his lap and away from his straining erection.

John retaliated by laughing and grinding his bottom on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock cursed and jerked him up so there was no longer any contact at all with his erection.

"Do you…"John was giggling madly, actual tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks. "Do you think….think that….all those women…that I dated- _dated,_ Sherlock, and had _sex _with- knew….oh, Christ, do you think they knew I wanted to fuck you?" he laughed madly, his eyes closed and his head bent forward, almost resting against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock found himself chuckling a bit watching him, John's mirth was infectious. He decided drunk John was a _bit_ hilarious.

"You know you were cockblocking me, right?" John asked, pushing Sherlock a bit. "Cockblocking. Sherlock. Sherlock cockblocker."

"I don't believe that's my name, John."

"It should be." John said darkly before leaning up and pressing his lips to Sherlock's. "You loved me then, hmmm? You did."

"If you say so, John."

"You say my name weird." John frowned and laughed at the same time. "I like it. Jaaaaawwwwn. Jaaaawn. Your voice is like…like sex." He leaned closer and whispered in Sherlock's ear. "I could come from listening to your voice." Then licked Sherlock's ear, giggling. "That first night…I thought of something we could do together. Sexually. Together."

Sherlock's heart began speeding up again. Thus far, he and John hadn't experimented very much in the bedroom. Their relationship was barely a week old and there had been cases and…and Sherlock had been just a bit apprehensive. That first night had been amazing, and the hand job John had later given him in the lavatory at Scotland Yard had been deliciously naughty and stimulating, but they had progressed no further. John was being patient and Sherlock was glad…but maybe they could do more.

"What would that be?" Sherlock asked, his voice slightly higher than usual in excitement.

"Your voice is like sex." John whispered, running his tongue around the shell of Sherlock's ear, causing the consulting detective to arch against him. "I could come from listening to your voice."

Sherlock's mouth fell open, a delicious reaction from the combination of John's mischievous suggestion and a bite to his earlobe.

There was bang from downstairs and footsteps rushing up the stairs before Lestrade strode through the door and stopped, his mouth open, when he saw John straddling Sherlock's lap, red faced and laughing, and Sherlock, flushed, wide-eyed, and surprised.

"Is this a bad time?" he choked, eyes wide and trying not to freak out at finding the two…together. Seems like Dimmock now owed him money.

"Lestrade!" John cried happily, tried to get up, and fell backwards off Sherlock's lap, landing on the floor on his back. This, he decided, was apparently hilarious and John curled in on himself laughing.

"What did you do to John?" Lestrade asked, watching as John continued to laugh hysterically.

"He's drunk." Sherlock said dismissively, his lips twitching only briefly when he looked down at John, then swiveled to pin Lestrade with a murderous look. "What do you mean, _what did I do to him_?"

"Oh, come on. It's not a great leap to imagine you trying out some new drug or something on him." Lestrade fired back, grinning as he watched John roll about trying to stand. "He's really smashed, isn't he?"

Sherlock was silent, watching as John sighed, seeming to accept his new position on the floor and gazed up blearily at the ceiling. The two of them continued to watch John, who sighed gustily again and stretched his arms and legs like a giant spider before collapsing as if he were a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

"Anyway, I need you for a case." Lestrade said once John had settled down.

Sherlock stopped himself mid-motion in getting up. "I can't leave John."

"Well, you can't bring him with you." Lestrade reminded him, glancing at the man still sprawled on the floor between them, who had smiled and hummed vaguely when Sherlock said his name.

"Of course not." Sherlock snapped, glancing down at John who had closed his eyes and seemed on the verge of sleeping. He was surprised he'd lasted this long, being so drunk. "Send me the notes tomorrow."

Lestrade agreed, and after more brief inanities about the case, he left. Sherlock walked to the top of the stairs and watched Lestrade leave, wish he could go on the case but knowing John would never forgive him if he left.

"You're dangerous."

Sherlock looked back at John, still sprawled on the floor. "What?"

"You. You're dangerous. It's what everyone told me. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He's dangerous. He doesn't have friends." John blinked up at Sherlock who still stood, his hands in his pockets, and wondered where John was going with this.

"I'm not a stranger to danger."

Sherlock wondered if John was trying to make a quip, linking him to danger and that to John's recent sexual intercourse with himself. It was crude but Sherlock did not put it past him to-

"Afghanistan." John said and Sherlock's mind snapped back, recalling everything he knew about John's time spent there, healing people, watching after all his best efforts were exhausted and his patients still died, the wound, almost dying, the suffering he had gone through, the medals he had won.

John had never actually told Sherlock about his time in Afghanistan. Even Mycroft had refused to tell Sherlock anything, or provide the necessary paperwork. He had even went so far as to block any access to John's file, saying that it was John's place to tell Sherlock and he needed to leave the information well enough alone. Sherlock had tried nonetheless, but now he went still, wondering if John would tell him. If he were a better man, he wouldn't prod John to tell him, but…he was curious. And it hadn't been one of John's rules, even though he had to have known that Sherlock would ask about it.

He'd just opened his mouth when-

"Can we go to bed?" John asked tiredly, his voice resigned and sad, and Sherlock's stomach sank in disappointment even as he hauled John up and helped him through the doorway to his bedroom.

He managed to get John settled into bed, removing everything except his pants and pushing him beneath the covers.

"Don't leave." John's voice was hushed and choked and Sherlock looked up in surprise to see the happy drunk completely gone. Now, he was staring at the haunted drunk, the soldier running away from his problems and memories. Sherlock suddenly wished he'd never gotten John drunk. It had been a stupid idea.

"Join me." John entreated and Sherlock acquiesced, climbing into bed beside him fully dressed. John rolled closer and rested his head on Sherlock's collarbone, inhaling shakily. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and could feel his entire body shaking as he went back in time, reliving those horrible memories that usually only resurfaced in the dead of night but nevertheless left him screaming and waking in a cold sweat. Sherlock had seen John after those nightmares. He'd emerge from his room, shaky and pale, and make a cup of tea then sit in the living room and stare vacantly at nothing, his tea usually forgotten and left to cool. Sherlock's presence seemed superfluous during those moments, even if he played the violin or just sat and stared at John. Knowing that John was reaching out to him now, whereas before he'd not, sent a brief flare of warmth through Sherlock's chest.

"I thought I was dead." John whispered, his voice only slightly slurred now. "I did die, twice, on the operating table before they managed to stabilize me. The pain…there was so much pain." John's voice cracked and Sherlock felt something hot hit his skin. He realized, with a guilty jolt, that John was crying. He tightened his arms around him, his own heart splintering, and listened. "I wanted to die…when it was all over. Wanted to never wake up. Wished I'd died there 'cause there wasn't anything left for me anymore."

Sherlock remembered meeting John that first day. He had deduced within seconds that the man in front of him was suicidal and he hadn't expected John to show up the next day to look at the flat, being too depressed to do so. When he had, Sherlock had still known John was suicidal, owned a gun, and if nothing was done, would take his own life soon. So he had distracted him. It was still the best decision he'd ever made.

"I never would have met you, though." John said, his eyes a bit misty and he craned his neck to look up at Sherlock. "I think…I think meeting you…that makes all the pain I went through worth it. I'd go through it again…if it meant I'd meet you."

Sherlock had no words as he stared into John's eyes, which were still wet and held that terrible sadness that oftentimes threatened to overwhelm him…but at the same time those eyes reflected happier emotions: hope, joy, and love, and all of them because of Sherlock.

John, in just a few words, had reduced Sherlock to a jumbled pile of feelings and thoughts that couldn't be organized, no matter how hard he tried. There was a breathless, gasping feeling- almost as if he were hyperventilating, but it wasn't that. It was as if his lungs couldn't draw any air in, even as his heart beat faster, pumping oxygen deprived blood through his veins and making his head spin. He didn't know if he were happier than he'd ever been in his life or sadder than he'd ever thought it was possible to feel.

John leaned up and pressed his lips to Sherlock's and the consulting detective was too shocked to respond, could only lay there and let John kiss him, feeling his heart attempt to beat out of his chest.

"Mmm. I love you, Sherlock. I'll…I'll tell you one day when I'm not drunk, 'kay?" John mumbled against Sherlock's shoulder as he settled down to sleep.

Sherlock nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak at the moment.

"You love me." John wriggled pleasantly against Sherlock, running his hands up and down Sherlock's side, his eyes closed in pleasure.

Sherlock paused, his fingers caressing John's cheek. He finally replied after a few minutes. "I do."

John's only reply was a gentle snore.

* * *

John groaned, his head resting on top of his arms at the kitchen table, wishing death on the world and his flat mate who was currently attempting to redeem himself by cooking breakfast as quietly as possible.

"So, what did I say?"

"Oh, nothing of any importance, John." Sherlock said airily, gently placing a plate of eggs and bacon on the table near John's head. John moaned and pushed the food away, wincing at the sound the plate made as it scraped along the table. "Pills." He moaned pathetically, opening his hand palm up on the table and swallowing the capsules Sherlock placed there with only minimal squinting at them.

"So last night was a total waste then?" John asked huskily, his voice disbelieving and appalled.

Sherlock's lips quirked upward in a smile that John couldn't see as he buried his head in his arms again.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."


	5. Chapter 5

When John awoke, he groggily blinked twice before panic exploded through every nerve in his body.

Panting, he frantically struggled to move but his wrists were chained above his head without any slack, his ankles similarly secured to the ends of the hard wooden slab he was lying on, keeping him in perfect range of the blade. He disbelievingly tracked the gentle, hypnotic swing of a large axe through the air above his abdomen. The axe, its sharp blade gleaming in the harsh overhead fluorescents, made a soft and lethal sounding _swish-swish-swish_ as it curved through the air. A thick silver chain was the only thing stopping it from dropping down and severing John in two.

You have _got_ to be kidding me, John thought as his eyes compulsively tracked the path of the blade. The entire scene was like something straight out of a horror movie. If it hadn't been for the icy coldness of the chains around his wrists, the unerring hardness of the slab he was on, and the pulsing pain in his skull that made John realize he'd been bashed earlier, he would've thought this was all a vivid and horrible dream.

As this was real life, and his death was seemingly imminent, John craned his neck, trying to discover where he was and who was doing this.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock, upright and chained to the concrete wall to his left, his eyes narrowed and intense as he looked at John from only feet away. He visibly relaxed when he saw John was now awake and leaned back against the wall, his eyes darting back to someone John couldn't see.

"Once _again_, tell me what the evidence against me is, what the plans are…or Doctor Watson dies."

John had barely registered the posh, self-assured voice speaking from behind him before there was an ominous clink of chains and the blade dropped, still slicing through the air but now only two feet from John's stretched out body. He instinctively sucked his stomach in when the blade dropped and he heard a scuffling movement from Sherlock as the blade ground to a halt.

"Tell me, Sherlock." The voice was calm, reasonable and John tried to raise his head to see who-

"Stay still, John." Sherlock's voice was calm but underneath that was a thread of worry that made John's stomach drop- even as the axe dropped again by another foot.

John began to sweat, his legs moving restlessly as he struggled in vain to free himself, his eyes tracing the arcing path of the blade as light gleamed wickedly from it. The chains were strong, though, and thick, merciless. There was no escaping them, not without a key.

"Apparently you don't care about your blogger. You seem to care more about letting the inept police catch me than keeping your friend's guts in his body where they belong." The male voice still spoke serenely, rationally, as if he were discussing trivial matters and not life and death.

John, feeling his heart beating frantically in his chest, tried to calm his breathing and himself. Panicking wouldn't help anything, not in this situation.

"I don't-"

"I know you know, Sherlock. Playing the imbecile won't work with me." The man began stalking around the table, walking into John's line of sight, and he suddenly remembered the case he and Sherlock had been working on. Serial killer, decades old- Caleb Stanhope. Sherlock had been fascinated by the man's arcane and gruesome methods of killing his victims, each more macabre than the last. John had found them morbid and disturbing and he now realized, with growing horror, that he was apparently going to be victim number 32.

Caleb Stanhope- a regular man who lived in an ordinary house and stuttered when he talked- now smiled pleasantly down at John and cocked his head to the side. "I wonder what your brain looks like, Doctor Watson. You know I keep mementos of my craft. I've never had a PTSD one before." He sighed, humming under his breath. "Probably looks just the same as the others to the naked eye. Still, it will complete my collection- did you deduce that, Sherlock? That I like to-

"Collect the brains of people with neurological disorders? Yes."

Caleb smirked. "Knew you'd get it. You're brilliant like that. Which is why I know you've already worked it out. How the police are planning to catch me."

He walked back around behind John, out of his line of sight. "_Tell me_, Sherlock."

"I've already told you, I _don't_ _know_-"

The axe dropped again and Sherlock cried out, "_No_!"

The chains made a sharp, grating _clang_ as the axe jerked to a stop mere _inches_ above John's navel, wobbling drunkenly from side to side before falling back into its steady rhythm, like the ticking of a clock.

John had screamed, unable to stop the sound ripping its way from his mouth, and had desperately sucked his stomach in, even though he knew that would be little help from such a deadly blade. It still somehow made him feel safer from the axe and he lay beneath it, panting and jerking uselessly at his restraints. He knew he couldn't get free but it was impossible to keep from trying.

"John?!" Sherlock asked and John turned his head to see Sherlock struggling frantically against his chains, his eyes wide and frantic. Seeing Sherlock lose control, show emotion like that in the situation they were in, made a lance of fear shoot up John's spine. He realized two things simultaneously: Sherlock didn't have a plan to get them out of this, and in that instant, John knew he was going to die.

And in the space of one heartbeat to the next, he accepted it, allowing the peace of doing so to wash over him.

Running round with Sherlock placed him in all sorts of complicated and dangerous situations he'd otherwise not normally have found himself in. It wasn't a difficult leap for John to have known that one day he wouldn't be quick enough, or clever enough, to escape the inevitable.

This was it.

What else was there to do? If _Sherlock_ couldn't come up with a plan, John knew there was no way _he_ could.

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's ok." John said breathlessly, his voice steady, and he saw the change in Sherlock's face, the brief spasm of pain as he closed his eyes and turned his head away from John, as if unable to look at him anymore. He knows I know, John thought, and, when Sherlock turned back to face him, his face open in a way John had rarely seen before, he managed a smile and a firm nod, their signal from long ago. Sherlock gazed back at him and there was something in his eyes that flashed and glinted, but was gone the next time he blinked.

"Tick tock, Sherlock." Caleb called out. "Tell me the plans. I know that bastard Lestrade is in on it. He couldn't find a clue if I handed him one with his name on it. I've thought of doing that, you know." Caleb chuckled, walking back so John could see him. "He was just a regular copper when I first started and he's been trying to catch me his entire career. Such a failure he never will because I haven't worked half my life to be taken down by a fairy like you and your fuck toy. You're both dead."

"That doesn't give me much incentive to reveal the plans." Sherlock said, his voice almost bored and he had stopped jerking at his restraints, instead leaning casually back against the wall, almost as if he were here of his own free will, just enjoying a nice chat. He didn't look at John again and John relaxed against the table, still staring over at Sherlock, wanting the last thing he saw to be his face.

He wished he'd told him he loved him, but he was reluctant to do so in front of Caleb Stanhope, the man who'd hung his victims from their intestines and painted the walls with their blood. Telling Sherlock _now_ that he loved him would somehow cheapen it- it was something pure and beautiful, not something for Caleb to mock. It was something he should have told Sherlock weeks ago, when they'd first started dating. It was something he should have told him months ago. He should never have let a day pass that he didn't tell him. Now, he couldn't.

John closed his eyes and turned his head away from Sherlock.

"Well, _of course_, I'm not going to let the two of you escape, you should've figured that out- you're supposed to be _intelligent_. I've read your blog. You shouldn't have come snooping around my house if you expected to get out alive. What I _can_ offer is a painless and quick death for Doctor Watson. I know you care for him and you've seen what I'm capable of. Would you like to see him sliced in half right in front of your eyes?" The chain holding the axe rattled threateningly and John braced himself for death.

"_John_." He heard Sherlock whisper, the barest of sounds.

"Or I could hang him upside down and drain the blood from his body. Bathe in his still warm blood, make you drink it. Have you ever cooked with fresh blood? No? You _must_ try it. The flavor is just…_mm_! Or I could disembowel him, tie his intestines around his neck and strangle him until he dies."

The only sound in the room was the steady _swish-swish-swish_ of the axe and John's ragged breathing. Sherlock had gone completely still and even Caleb had stopped walking, merely glorying in the ideas his truly sick mind could create.

"_Or_…you could just tell me the plans they have to catch me and take me in, all the evidence you've given them against me, and I'll shoot Doctor Watson in the head, clean and painless."

Caleb allowed the silence to spiral horribly, allowing both men to think of each eventuality of John's death, before speaking. "It's _your_ choice, Sherlock."

John heard Sherlock's chains rattle again before he finally spoke. "I'll tell you."

"Excellent! I-"

"But first…you shoot John."

Caleb laughed. "So eager to see your friend die?"

"I want to make sure you honor your word."

Silence, then "Ok. Sure."

John forced his eyes open and his world narrowed down to the scrape of footsteps moving away, the sound of something opening, and the lethal sounding click of a gun being loaded. His breathing sped up, knowing death was coming, and he glanced at Sherlock-

"_Fuck_!"

John jerked and moved his head, cricking his neck to give himself an upside down view of Sherlock somehow freed and grappling with Caleb, wrestling with him for control of the gun. Caleb was ruthless, kicking out, battering with his free fist at Sherlock's head and face, but Sherlock remained focused, parrying the blows when he could, and twisting his hand that held the gun with Caleb, twisting it back, back, until-

John winced at the sound of the loud gunshot that left his ears ringing. He watched as Caleb fell to the side, blood streaming from his chest, and staggered, eyes already glassy, and caught sight of John. He lurched, Sherlock grabbed at him, and Caleb fell atop the mechanism that controlled the axe-

The chains grated and the axe wobbled, dropping another inch.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! The blade's still falling!" John called out frantically, jerking as hard as he could at his restraints.

"John!"

Warm hands were around his wrists, the click of a key and then his manacles fell to the table. John tried to raise up but Sherlock shoved him back down on the table and hauled him forcefully to the side, making sure he stayed prone and therefore away from the blade.

The heavy thud of the axe cutting into the table was loud in the room and John gasped and tensed, knowing it had missed him but wondering how close. He slumped off the side of the table, clutching at Sherlock, his entire upper body hanging towards the concrete while his feet were still tightly restrained and twisted at a horribly painful angle. He was almost positive he'd just sprained both ankles if the painful twinges racing up his legs were any indication…but he was alive.

_He was alive._

"Sherlock…" He panted, feeling the consulting detective trembling from holding him up. He looked up at Sherlock to find him staring, horrifically mesmerized, at the table. Judging from his slightly sick expression, John knew exactly how close he'd come to being severed right in half.

The answer: _very_.

* * *

The next hour passed in a blur. Lestrade and the rest of his officers arrived and there were questions asked and statements given, congratulations and curses, back-slapping and grimaces, but finally, _finally_ John and Sherlock managed to get away from the circus. One cab right later, they managed to stumble, hop, limp, and drag themselves up the stairs of 221B.

John, for all his being wired from adrenaline and high on the fact the he _was still alive_, was ready for a cuddle and not afraid to admit it.

He'd almost been murdered today- actually they both had but as Sherlock hadn't had a 16 inch blade swinging above him, John was ready to be a diva about the whole thing. They showered together, leaning against each other- for support in John's case and comfort in Sherlock's. He was being unusually quiet but John was still in too much shock to be aware of it. His mind seemed stuck on the fact that he was alive, he'd managed to escape, he wasn't going to die. He had an idea he'd be feeling this way for the next few days.

After the shower, they climbed into Sherlock's bed and soon, after soft kisses and murmured words, gentle caresses and heartfelt sighs, John was sprawled beneath Sherlock, the taller man tenderly kissing his way down John's chest, trying not to imagine the damage the axe could have done had it dropped. Severed John's abdomen- Sherlock licked the line it would have made then peppered it with kisses, feeling his heart lurch sickeningly- John would have bled out in seconds, there on the table in front of him. He shuddered and John's hands were there, caressing his bare back, soothing him, but not saying a word.

The fact was that there in the basement, Sherlock had been terrified. He had been helpless, his entire mind screaming _Save John, save John, save John, save John how how how make a plan save John, save John _and he'd been unable to formulate a cogent escape plan. He'd been frozen, petrified, and useless in the face of so much terror. He'd already known that he placed John in dangerous situations, it was part of their job, but never before had he felt such…fear.

He had eventually managed it, though. He'd picked the locks without alerting Caleb to what he was doing, and he'd saved John. But he should have been quicker about it.

It was sentiment. Caring so deeply placed him at a disadvantage. Rationally, Sherlock knew the best solution would be to cut John out of his life. It would be for the best- for both of them, but most especially for John.

Irrationally, Sherlock clung to John with both hands and knew he could never let this man go.

Never.

No matter what, or who, happened.

Sherlock stopped kissing John's mercifully unblemished stomach and rested his head against his navel, breathing shaky and uneven, body trembling, and felt John run his hand through his curls.

"Sherlock?" His voice was low with desire, but hesitant because he knew something was wrong. "What is it?"

Sherlock rubbed his head against John, feeling the smaller man squirm slightly as his curls tickled. "You could have died." His voice was choked and raw sounding and somehow this made him feel as if he were eight years old again, pretending he wasn't about to cry but secretly, desperately wishing he could fling himself onto his own bed and bawl his eyes out. The sting of tears made his throat close up and his chest tighten.

"I didn't."

His John, ever the realist.

Sherlock lifted his head and stretched out atop John's body and, while the gesture was innately sensuous, there was nothing sexual about it. He simply needed to be close to John, to press himself against his lover and deduce for himself that the man was still breathing, still very much alive. Sherlock anchored himself to John and kissed the man he adored, was in awe of, was inspired by. Needed desperately.

"I love you." He whispered shakily, afraid to say it too loud, wanting to keep this moment between just himself and John. Later, he would want to declare it to the entire world, but in that moment, it was the most intimate thing Sherlock had ever experienced and he wanted to keep it that way.

John sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes searching, wide and slightly stunned. Rough finger tips brushed at Sherlock's cheek.

"I love you, too. _God_, how much I love you." John whispered back, his own voice shaking with emotion, and he pulled Sherlock down to kiss him again, his arms coming up to grasp the taller man closer to him, needing, just as Sherlock did, that comforting feeling of flesh on flesh, feeling each other breathe, their hearts beating, bodies moving in sync.

It was after the storm of emotions died down, after they had confirmed time and again that they loved each other, through actions and many, many declarations of love, that Sherlock was sprawled atop John, thinking that perhaps he could go to sleep this way. He couldn't stop himself from pressing a gentle kiss to John's chest though, murmuring another "I love you."

Instead of responding with a sleepy "I love you, too" John shifted and Sherlock knew he was about to confess something from the way he tensed beneath him.

"I have to tell you something." John began, voice uncertain and worried. "I actually…already knew you loved me. You um, sort of told me…that night you were drunk."

Sherlock froze, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. Of course. _Idiot_. He should have deduced that ages ago.

Then he opened his eyes, propped himself up, and smiled down at John.

"You told me you loved me as well. The night _you_ were drunk."

There was a beat of disbelief and then they were both laughing at the absurdity of it, the sheer happiness of it.

"Do you think it's not good? Us declaring our love when we were drunk?" John finally asked when he has enough oxygen to breathe.

Sherlock shrugged, not really caring but knowing it was important to John. "It worked out in the end. I suppose that's all that matters."

John wrapped his arms back around the crazy man he was lucky enough to be in love with, and squeezed tightly. "Yeah. You're right. It worked out in the end."

* * *

**Well, I said there would only be one more chapter- this one- but someone (you know who you are) wanted a sequel in which John and Sherlock are both drunk. And I have decided to write it. I think most of us have already discussed my complete lack of shame and I've decided to embrace that with the next chapter. :) Thanks for reading!**


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